Searching for Eliott
by cattaclysm
Summary: I never was one for drinking. Socially or otherwise. But the moonlight shone down on us and I felt his hand on mine as a cool breeze rolled. A thought that prodded at my mind slowly began to take affect and he exhaled silent promises as we stood up. He was a human whose heart served only to pump blood to my knowledge but he stood beside me and I felt. I found him.


I never was one for drinking. Socially or otherwise. Those douches that say they only drink socially are the ones that are socializing all the time. I never was one for drinking, no. My mother was, she loved a good glass of wine or two (hundred). It was a prime example of me trying so fucking hard not to be like her. She possessed horrid qualities I would never want to emulate. Yet there I was, sat in a forest with Elliott, drinking all conscious thought away. I had no idea what I was even drinking, cirrhosis of the liver probably, and the moonlight shone down on us and I leaned back. I didn't even have that much, a few steady gulps from the bottle, before I got sick of it. I was in no way like my mother. She would've chugged the whole thing down.

He took the bottle from me, took a swig and set the bottle down between us. I scanned him over. His hair was curly and messy as usual and his brown eyes were cast at the skies. I looked up and felt something intercept my mind, a thought. A stray, simple thought. One that shouldn't have that much affect on me at all. It was short and to the point but slightly pointless. Short and to the point, or lack thereof, rather.

_He looks nice._

A simple thought, one fueled by a buried emotion, somewhere amongst the questionings of reality and the meanings of existence, it stood out by its clear form.

_He_, meaning Elliott Lynch.

_Looks,_ referring to his appearance at this particular moment. Or was it all the time? Or... was it even his appearance? It was... something of his that appeared somehow, anyway.

_Nice,_ meaning not nice, but eye-catching, breathtaking, unknown and eternal, foreign and endearing in the way that the wind rustled his hair out of place. Absolutely unheard of in the way that his eyes glimmered as he looked at the night sky and positively unnerving in the way that his hand touched mine. Nice.

And as my mind analyzed this thought, tried to find its root, where it was coming from, I failed to notice the most important part of all of that, all of those explanations, all those jumbled words forming sentences relating to this simple, straightforward thought.

_His hand touched mine._ A gasp, followed by a jerk and a mumble of apologies before returning to normal. His hand still touched mine.

A simple gesture that spoke things words couldn't begin to comprehensively describe. It was a surge of power and need coursing through every vein of my body ending at the tip of my toes. It was a hormonal reaction causing my heart to beat erratically and it was a feral, unfiltered desire to taste, to touch, _to feel._

And I felt him.

His breaths were shallow, gentle against the air, rivaling the calmness of the occasional breeze. His hands were cold. Mine weren't. His fingers were skinny and cold and I squeezed his hand subconsciously, that simple thought moving forward, taking over my entire mind, slowly affecting me. The moonlight seemed so foreign and distant and I felt.

We got up and he dusted himself off, kicked the bottle off somewhere and stepped closer to me. His breath smelled like wine but I didn't care. Because he stood beside me and I let him stand, like two pillars flush together, representing a unity far surpassing human emotion, a silent promise that hung in the air and the skies turned inside out at the pure thoughts we shared, tainted by the masses but cleared by the cold air.

I stood alone and he stood beside me and yanked my hand out of my pocket and held it firmly, like a promise fueled by a broken desire and the moonlight still shone down on us and we walked away where the roads took us, unstable boys in search of meaning.

(I found meaning in him but I would never admit it. I found meaning in his hands and he held mine tighter. I found meaning in his eyes and he fixed his gaze to mine. I found meaning in the moonlight and he picked it off the skies as I realized what it really meant. I found him.)


End file.
